


The Great Inevitability

by Megg33k



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:19:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The mark of a good action is that it appears inevitable in retrospect.” ~Robert Louis Stevenson</p><p>It would come to be called The Great Inevitability, but at the time, it felt neither great nor inevitable. Greatness and inevitability should never start with a spilled cup of tea. They never <em>should</em>, but sometimes they <em>can</em>, and in this case, they most certainly <em>did</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great Inevitability

**Author's Note:**

  * For [corvusredcrow](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=corvusredcrow), [thescienceofjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thescienceofjohnlock), [Redcrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redcrow/gifts).



> This was written as a gift/prize for corvusredcrow/thescienceofjohnlock after she won my "Guess How Many Followers I'll Lose Due To Penis Friday" contest. The prompt: Sherlock finally realizing he’s attracted to John and a relieved John as he’s been trying to deny his attraction, or something like that.

It would come to be called The Great Inevitability, but at the time, it felt neither great nor inevitable. Greatness and inevitability should never start with a spilled cup of tea. They never _should_ , but sometimes they _can_ , and in this case, they most certainly _did_.

***

It was innocent really… all of it. Every action between Point A and Point B… or, rather, Point F or K or maybe even Q, and that’s assuming John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had even bothered starting somewhere as logical as Point A, which they hadn’t.  Let’s also not pretend that the path between the points was anything resembling the shortest distance or even a straight fucking line. It was something more akin to a sinus rhythm in exactly the way Sherlock’s heart rate was not.

John had been in the kitchen for a very long time, at least by Sherlock’s standards. That is to say, Sherlock’s _‘look at me, look at me’_ sensor was alerting him that John had been ignoring him for far too long. As he rose from his seat in the parlour and drifted toward the kitchen, John was doing precisely the opposite. Do you know what get if you take one Army doctor with two hot cups of tea and add the three-second distraction of a threatening-to-slosh brew? You get a very surprised detective with a very wet and slightly burny crotch.

“Oh, Jesus, Sherlock!” John immediately placed the cups on the kitchen table, grabbed a tea towel, dropped to his knees, and started blotting at the front of Sherlock’s trousers. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Blue eyes apologetically peered up through long, thick lashes.

And in that moment… _that very moment_ … Sherlock’s brain, for all it was, betrayed him by shorting out. His knees betrayed him by going weak. And his cock betrayed him by doing… well… everything his knees refused to do.

Luckily, a few of his parts did continue to work, like the hands that snatched the tea towel and the lips that spoke in fevered staccato. “Thank you, John. I’ll do it myself.” And, with tea towel still pressed firmly over crotch, he scampered off toward his room.

As he crossed the threshold and slammed the door behind him, the simple fact his legs had carried him there was worthy of his thanks to a god in which he didn’t believe.  When he stumbled toward and fell onto his bed, his silent praise continued. But, with the lifting of the tea towel and a hateful scowl toward the engorged tissue pressing against his zip, his exaltation ended. Just like the realization that a dead woman in pink carried a similarly pink case, he realized a flat mate could be something more. And John was… _oh, god, he was._

And then something interesting happened. In the middle of a veritable crime drought, on a sunny London afternoon, in the confines of a very small room in a fairly small flat… _something. interesting. happened._ Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and human perpetual motion machine extraordinaire, stopped. Sure, he continued to breathe and his heart continued to beat. He would tell you those things stopped too, but the fact he’s alive to tell you that is somewhat of a confirmation that it’s simply not true. What happened next was hard to say, mostly because no one knows for sure, least of all Sherlock.

While he hadn’t ever been completely blind to John’s… pleasing aesthetic… it was also an unconscious observation. He liked being around John, and he disliked being around unattractive people. _Take Anderson. No, really … just take him._ But, if John weren’t visually satisfactory, Sherlock would have actively noticed. The heart of the issue was that now he _had_ actively noticed, not only that John’s appearance was adequate but that it was… arousing.

It’s amazing how differently one’s mind interprets a face just because it is, for the first time, upturned from the level of his groin. There’s something remarkable about the way the image burns itself into the mind so that it may _always_ be seen from that angle, until the desire to repeat the visual stimuli becomes overwhelming. In other words, the impressively complex lump of grey matter in Sherlock’s skull was now refusing to picture John in anyway other than on his knees, in close proximity to Sherlock’s still and distressingly roused genitalia.

The next problem was a bit complicated. He needed to inspect the offending tissue for damage and possible burns, but he shuddered at the thought of encouraging it. This _thing_ it was doing… it was unacceptable… utterly indecent. Still, he had to check. With the measured caution of child peeking at a waiting audience through red velvet curtains before a school play, Sherlock peeled back the layers concealing his cock. He stared warily, as if it may have been a well-disguised snake, coiled and ready to strike. But it wasn’t a snake, not of the traditional sort, and it most certainly wasn’t coiled.

Though skin was yet flushed pink with irritation, there didn’t appear to be any lasting damage done. But it was warm to the touch –yes, he touched it– and it was _so. fucking. warm._ A burning tingle seared wherever fingertips met flesh, nerve endings absolutely aflame with both pain and passion. Then a touch became a stroke and a wince became a gasp, which in turn became a moan, and a soothing palm became a tightening fist. Pre-cum turned to aloe and then to lube, and Sherlock was interacting with his body in a way he’d resisted for the majority of his life.

Incoherent mumbles slipped from his lips, growing with intensity and volume by the minute. And, at some point, they grew with their coherency as well. The peripheral sound of his own voice drowned out a quiet knock, the soft but familiar creak of a door, and then John was there. Because he would be.  Of course a person responds when his name is called. And Sherlock had, though regrettably, called John’s name… more than once.

What a sight he must have been, one hand fisted around his cock, the thumb of the other pressed against his perineum as he tugged fabric and zip away from a tight, drawn up scrotum. His legs hung over the edge of the bed, feet flexed toward the floor and toes curling just slightly. With eyes screwed tightly shut and lips only tentatively parted, he alternately panted and grunted his way through each rough stroke.

***

He should have moved, left the doorway, shut the door, and pretended he never saw… but, good lord, _how?_ How do you walk away from a thing of such rare and unyielding beauty? Thin limbs dangled languidly from the mattress, long fingers working furiously on an exquisitely hard and remarkably perfect cock… one he had imagined multiple times but had never dreamed he might actually see. No, John Watson stood and watched, but more than anything, he tried desperately to remember how to fucking breathe.

When the function in his lungs finally returned, he sucked in a harsh breath and huffed out a sound that sounded like a name. “Sherlock.”

***

The voice spoke ‘Sherlock’ but sounded like ‘what the hell is wrong with you?’ It was breathy and low and was most probably appalled at the vulgarity of his actions. Sherlock’s lids snapped open, his knees drawing into his chest, and he scuttled toward the furthest corner of his bed. When John stepped toward him, he wanted to apologize… not only for what he was doing, but even more for what he was _thinking._

He opened his mouth to speak, but he was too distracted by his own mental berating to form words. _Perverted, disgusting freak. He’s going to hate you now_ , his brain taunted. And he recognized that voice, the voice that always guided him and helped him deduce, the voice that was always right. _He doesn’t want you, you know… You’re just not good enough. You’ll_ never _be good enough._ The voice was _always_ right.

And now with John very close indeed, Sherlock flinched. It had been decades since the day he was struck in response to a similar situation –back when Sherlock was too naïve to know how his affections might be received and before the world led him to believe his sexual desires made him a deviant, the only boy he’d ever dared to fancy as a youth had shown him the back of a hand for his advances… and Sherlock had never touched himself (or anyone else) like that ever again— but here and now, with the new object of his affection again within arm’s reach, the thirty-four-year-old trembling toddler of a man still flinched.

When he tried again to verbalize, he was cut off by a shaky breath rattling from John’s lungs. “Don’t stop,” John pleaded as softly as freshly fallen snow. “Please, don’t stop.”

“John,” Sherlock rasped and was rewarded with a quiet moan and the shedding of a jumper.

“Say it again.” The bed sank with the weight of John’s body, sitting close… so very, _very_ close. “Say it again, and show me how you like to be touched.”

“John.” Sherlock obeyed. His knees relaxed, his thighs falling open just a bit, but he didn’t much else move. “I…” He cleared his very tight, very dry throat and spoke the truth. “I don’t know how I like to be touched.”

And when John looked at him again, he saw… he really _saw_. Because, for all the genius Sherlock was, _John_ was the smart one. So he turned, pressing his torso between Sherlock’s thighs, and started a dialogue— a very brief, very one-sided, very hands-on dialogue. After all, words and actions were what Sherlock understood best. “Do you—” He replaced Sherlock’s fist, the one that still gripped a defiantly hard cock, with his own. “—like it—” He kissed the tip of that same cock and licked at the pre-cum drip-drizzling from the slit. “—when I—” His next gesture fell somewhere between a slurp and a suck. “—do this?”

Sherlock nodded headily as his lungs searched for air.

“Do you know—” John slid his mouth down Sherlock’s cock until blunt tip and soft palate met and then pulled back with excruciating slowness and an exquisite amount of friction. “—how relieved—” And again. “—I am—” And again, his tongue more thoroughly exploring Sherlock’s glans on the upstroke. “—to know—” And one last time, pulling his mouth off with a very loud, very satisfying _POP_. His breath ghosted hot along Sherlock’s torso. “I’m not the only one who thinks of his flat mate while he wanks?”

The breath that shuddered from Sherlock’s chest carried the weight of the universe and hung in the air around them. His next breath was impossibly shallow, and then his lips were caught snugly between John’s. The tongue from his cock now explored the expanse of his mouth and tasted of musk, sweat, and sex — his own special blend. When he finally started to speak, all he said was, “I—”

“Would you,” John continued, his mouth now pressed to Sherlock’s ear, “Mr. Holmes—” To call John’s voice a whisper would be a grievous exaggeration of its volume. “—do me the gracious, glorious, stupendous honour of fucking me so hard and so deep that my eyes roll back in my head and I cum until I collapse?”

The twist of the good doctor’s hand and the flick of his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s cock actually made the detective squeak. “I’d love to, John,” he whimpered, “but you may have to wait a while if you don’t stop touching me like that right this very instant.” And, despite the whimper, he even said it with a certain degree of eloquence, because Sherlock always found his voice when he absolutely needed it most. Then he quieted, resisted the urge to continue, promised himself he wouldn’t ask, _Why would you want me to do that? Why are you being so kind to me? And what…_ oh, god _… what if I don’t know how?_ And then he asked anyway.

But John, the smart one –and, oh, he was the smart one— replied, “Because _you. are. beautiful_ , a goddamn work of art, a statue carved from marble by a very skilled hand. You’re brilliant and daft and perfect in every bloody way, and yet you still choose to call _my_ name whilst fucking your own fist in the silence of your room. And when I saw you, _saw what you were doing_ , I could think only that your fist should be me and how mental I must be for envying the flesh and bone of five long, thin fingers. And Sherlock… oh, my Sherlock… hear this if nothing else: you _do_ know how.”

And he did, and they _did_ , but why spare the details?

John shed his clothes and settled again on the bed. He pushed two of his fingers into Sherlock’s mouth, the good detective not hesitating to suck, and then rested sandy blonde head at the foot of Sherlock’s bed and pushed those same two fingers into himself. He pistoned them in and out before Sherlock’s very eyes, on bold and brazen display — and, by no means, should that have been considered accidental.

Sherlock watched and wanted; he practically frothed at the mouth. His fist moved again to his cock, but though the fingers gripping him were his own, it was John he was fucking. And, when he stopped paying attention and brought himself dangerously close to the edge, it was John’s voice that brought him back ‘round.

“Fuck me. Now.”

At first, Sherlock didn’t respond. He’d only barely heard the words, and he’d processed them even less. But his hand had, nonetheless and luckily, stilled.

“Sherlock,” John barked with the force of a man in need. “Fuck me.”

Slipping out of his pants and trousers and shrugging out of his shirt, Sherlock clambered on top of John. Their matching erections swayed lazily against one another for a split second before the fevered rutting of hips began. When John removed his fingers, making room for a more satisfying cock, Sherlock sucked them into his mouth again with an approving, guttural grunt. John’s other hand found said cock and lined it up with his own open, waiting, and spit-slicked hole. But Sherlock didn’t move.

 _Oh, god… what if I don’t know how? What if I hurt John… my beautiful, perfect John? What if this is just a ruse?_ – Clearly, logic was _not_ at play.

Then the fingertips of John’s hand dug in to the flesh of Sherlock’s arse, and that hand pushed, pushed, and pushed some more. And the moment tight, hot flesh began to engulf achingly overstimulated tissue, Sherlock was finally certain he _did_ know how. He slowly pressed on, inserting himself to the hilt, and waited. He wasn’t sure for what exactly he was waiting… but, nonetheless, he waited.

It was only a few long seconds before John wriggled beneath him and then bucked his hips, as if to drive home the silent command of _fuck-me-fuck-me-fuck-me-now_. And Sherlock did. Oh, he did.

John’s legs wrapped tight around a narrow waist, his heels digging into the small of Sherlock’s back. The flex and release of strong, ex-military thighs accompanied and aided each short pump. And then something — be it nature or collected knowledge — kicked in, and Sherlock hauled those same well-muscled legs onto his shoulders. He pulled back, only a few millimeters of his cock remaining in its new favourite place, and rammed it back in with one confident, fluid motion.

“God… yes… fuck… yes… god… damn… fffffuck…” John stuttered out, each word punctuated by a hard, deep, mind-shattering thrust. “Oh, god… jeezus… touch me.”

And Sherlock didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his fingers tightly around John’s bobbing prick and was, only a few strokes later, handsomely rewarded for his effort. With the shout of his name, John’s eyes did indeed retreat backward in their sockets, those same long lashes now fluttering in the clutches of ecstasy. Pearly white fluid shot thick and abundant on John’s chest, and the lean, milky arc of Sherlock’s body folded in on itself, his tongue almost too eager to claim the duly proffered bounty.

The tang of it – of _John_ — on his taste buds, along with the not-so-gentle clamp-and-release of already obscenely tight muscle around cock, was too much. Sherlock’s body went rigid, the glory of tendons straining in his elegant, out-stretched neck on proud display. He came with the force and the muted sob of a man who had, for much too long, denied himself the euphoria of carnal pleasures. His muscles vibrated beneath his flesh, his vision blurring to a muddled kaleidoscope of colours that once formed objects.  The heat of his own release swelled against his quickly withering cock. And he withdrew it when he collapsed next to John – his flat mate… the one who most definitely _was_ more.

Lying in the afterglow, while passing soft, silent kisses back and forth between the lips of lovers, John paused and asked, “How long?”

And Sherlock didn’t want to answer, because he didn’t want to think of it. He didn’t want to know how long he might have really known. “Forever,” he finally replied, and it was true. “But you?”

“Passively? Since I killed a man to save your life. Actively?” He smiled a smile that looked more like a frown. “Since the rooftop at St. Bart’s.”

“I know I can never make it up to—”

“Promise me you’ll stay… stay with me, just like this, for the rest of our lives.”

“I promise.” He meant it — meant it more than even he quite yet understood.

There would never be anything in the whole of creation that he would rather do with himself than lie naked next to _his John_ in the phosphorescence of their passion. Because Sherlock Holmes did nothing in halves and, surprisingly, took very little for granted. After spending so long being needed or tolerated by a world too dim to really know why he shined, he was finally _wanted_ and _chosen_ by someone who knew his each and every why and even the occasional how. His Army doctor saw through the façade that no one else even realized, or quite frankly cared, was there. And they were, by all rights and purposes, perfect and right — and, in that sense, they had always been inevitable.

***

“The mark of a good action is that it appears inevitable in retrospect.”

Robert Louis Stevenson

**Author's Note:**

> It's only fair to mention that I use my fic to try out new styles, and this was my first attempt at anything akin to Sherlock's POV. Apparently, there is a very difference cadence to my writing when I'm in Sherlock's head. I guess it makes as much sense as Lestrade's POV being written in noir, right? Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think of the feel of this. After all, I'm only ever going to be as good as the feedback I receive.
> 
> And, thanks to AtlinMerrick for reminding me to just keep writing... and maybe inspiring a bit of the wit in my narration! <3
> 
> Also... Beta? What's a beta? I'm impatient, k?


End file.
